


A Moment Like Dragonfly Wings

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Gen, Historical, M/M, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-13
Updated: 2010-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:31:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As they wait for the moment diplomatic relations officially will begin between their nations, Ivan and Alfred draw on a bright moment in their personal past to reach for a brighter future, and for a moment with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Moment Like Dragonfly Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Strawberryburst's prompt (Russia/America - snuggling) at [APH Fluffathon 2010](http://aph_fluffathon.livejournal.com).

_December 13, 1933 – Moscow_

It has been December 13th for only a few hours when Ivan reaches Red Square. He knows it is pointless to come so early; his boss will not need him for hours more yet and the new U.S. Ambassador will not arrive to present his credentials for still more hours beyond that. But sleep has not come to Ivan this night and, sensing it will continue to elude him, he has come here now.

As he crosses the Square, he sees he is not the first. Ah. Of course he is not.

Alfred appears to be dancing with anticipation. Espying Ivan, he stills himself. When Ivan nears, Alfred says, "Russia—or, Soviet Union. Um." He tilts his head, studying Ivan by light of the moon and the Square's luminaires. "So, what do I call you now?"

Ivan arches an eyebrow. "Why not call me as you have before?"

"Ivan." An unbelievably sweet smile graces Alfred's face, and yet the warmth of that smile compels Ivan to believe in the sweetness and he finds himself smiling in return. It is easy to mistake this sweetness for childishness, whether innocent or sly. Ivan has known this sweetness well enough to know it is not these things; or it is, perhaps, but bound up with more—it is _Alfred_ , in all his simplicity and all his complexity.

If there is more to the greeting, Alfred has forgotten it in the wake of establishing name protocol. He resumes his dance, a shuffling quick-change step, and as he hunches his shoulders, Ivan sees that in actuality it is a dance to ward off the chill.

Ivan turns to keep Alfred from seeing the smile he does not wish to deny himself at the other's expense. The flight jacket Alfred has been favoring since the Great War, emblazoned with the familiar _48_ , is far too thin for Moscow in December. Ivan warned him to wear something heavier but Alfred being Alfred had laughed as he assured Ivan he knew what he was doing.

Starlight, aided by the dance wind, shimmers the Moskva. It has been a long time since Ivan has stood on the bank of a river with Alfred, the two of them alone. It could be that there has been a time since the Sacramento, back when they were first knowing each other; it could be there has been another time, but that is the riverbank Ivan recalls now as he gazes into the Moskva with Alfred.

He turns to look at Alfred and is startled to find Alfred closer than he had been before, closer than protocol allows for. Before Ivan can step back, Alfred reaches out and Ivan feels his heavy coat pulling heavier against his shoulders; looking down, he sees that Alfred has stuck his hands into Ivan's pockets.

Alarm giving way to amusement, Ivan looks back up into Alfred's face.

"Well, you weren't using them. I mean, they were just going to waste," Alfred explains, eyes wide and blinking with an Alfredesque innocence, as if such a thing is a conventional response to a routine circumstance; and Ivan thinks that for Alfred, perhaps it is.

He chooses not to offer such a comment. Instead he says, "By all means, Comrade." Even as the word leaves his lips, he realizes it is the first time he has used it with Alfred.

Alfred must realize it, too, because his mouth opens for what Ivan thinks will be a quick and automatic protest—but then Alfred closes it again. A changed direction of thought flickers across Alfred's face and he opens his mouth again; and again closes it. And then he smiles wordlessly, and Ivan smiles, too.

Moscovite winter, seeped into Alfred's blood, tremors through him. Since Alfred has been gracious, Ivan will be as well. He soothes his palm along the curve of Alfred's spine, smoothing out the chill, feeling Alfred shiver in the new warmth, shiver and ease. Alfred takes a step closer, his body close up against Ivan's. Ivan's hand, on the upstroke, comes to Alfred's nape just as Alfred rests his head on Ivan's shoulder, and Ivan's hand stays there, molding to the curve of Alfred's neck.

A deep sigh rolls through Alfred, echoing in Ivan. Ivan feels Alfred's rhythm, slow and easy and deep, a lullaby of breathing. The warmth of the body against him makes Ivan more aware of the cold around them, aware of it in a way that normally he is not; not touched by it, but newly appreciating its existence.

Then he becomes aware of something else: a low, gentle rumbling emitting from Alfred. Purring. Ivan cannot help but laugh.

Alfred lifts his head and turns to Ivan without stepping back. "What?"

"It is nothing," Ivan assures him, smiling. "It is only that I always thought you were a puppy, a big golden retriever. But now I know you are a kitten." He dares to stroke the back of a gloved finger down along Alfred's throat.

A succession of low vibrations there indicates Alfred's understanding. As he continues to purr, a gust of wind washes over them, making Alfred move closer again. "There are big cats, too, y'know," he says as he rests his head on Ivan's shoulder once more. "We have some in America—you've seen them."

"Yes." Again Ivan recalls that trek into Alfred's wilderness, along the Sacramento. They had been walking through a ravine when a sudden presence had made the hairs on Ivan's arms stand up straight; a split-second later, his blood had frozen at the mountain lion's scream, the big cat so close Ivan almost thought he could reach out and touch it.

His fingers drift up, stroke through Alfred's golden hair now as he remembers the rush of adrenaline that had started his blood flowing again, how his body had prepared for the fight before his mind fully caught up to what was happening; and how Alfred had stepped in front of him, murmuring things incomprehensible to Ivan. And the big cat, recognizing something in Alfred or perhaps even recognizing Alfred for what he was, had let Alfred approach. Many times before and since has Ivan walked up to a brown bear and buried his fingers in its fur without second thought, but to watch another do such a thing—to watch Alfred go to his mountain lion had been something like what Ivan imagines magic to be, in his more fanciful moments.

Dropping to a crouch, Alfred had made sounds from his throat and the mountain lion had responded in kind. Then it had left them, turning as it padded off to give Ivan a long stare, one which told him the cat was still its own creature, wild and untamed. The gaze it had turned on Alfred was unreadable to Ivan, but it had made Alfred smile when the cat was gone.

It all comes back to Ivan now: the sights, the sounds, the smells. The way the rush of adrenaline had not faded. It had coursed through him, demanding. As he stands now with Alfred so close, he remembers in mind and body how Alfred had responded to the demands of Ivan's blood with those of his own. As he stands now with Alfred like this, Ivan speaks in English oh so soft and careful: "My tawny mountain lion."

Alfred does not acknowledge the memory with words, but he moves closer; he moves into space Ivan did not even know was there, occupying and obliterating it, rendering its previous, unknown existence moot. Ivan opens his hand so his fingers remain at Alfred's nape as his thumb stretches around to Alfred's throat. He strokes his thumb down to the hollow of Alfred's throat, back up beneath his chin. In response to the wordless request, Alfred begins once more to purr.

The wind blows around them. It must still be cold, but Ivan cannot feel it; it does not feel as though Alfred feels the cold any longer, either. The stars have shifted in the sky; time has passed, Ivan is aware of this—and also of how, in this moment, that does not matter.

When Alfred takes his hands from Ivan's pockets, Ivan reaches down to undo his coat. As if falls open, Alfred reaches inside, his arms sliding around Ivan.

"What is it that we are doing now?" Ivan murmurs, not certain he wants to know the answer; certain he must ask nevertheless.

Alfred looks into his eyes. "I want to be close to you."

Ivan smiles at that. "You could not be very much closer than you are at this moment."

"I want us to be close to each other," Alfred says without smiling back. The telltale furrow of serious intent appears between his eyebrows. Ivan would feign smooth it and resists the urge to lean forward and press his lips there. "You can be the Soviet Union," Alfred tells him, and Ivan refrains from sarcasm at the acknowledgment—because, in fact, this acknowledgment does matter. If it did not, they would not be here waiting for the Kremlin to open, for William Bullitt to meet with President Kalinin, for formal diplomatic relations to begin between their two nations.

"And I'll be the United States of America," Alfred continues, "and that'll be just fine, won't it? We'll be close again. We'll stand by each other."

Ivan does not ask who Alfred imagines would stand between them. He can think of any number of the others who would do such a thing. But he thinks also that, although Alfred cannot or will not say it, Alfred means that they themselves are the two most likely to prevent them from standing by one another.

This moment, the closeness they are experiencing in this moment, is so delicate. Internal cracks appear in the translucent moment, like veins in a dragonfly's wings. The moment is not broken yet, but Ivan does not wish to make impossible promises, ones that might shatter things beyond and above this moment.

Drawing a deep breath, he starts with some regret, "Alfred—"

"Uh uh." Alfred shakes his head peremptorily. "Nope."

It is that Alfredian childishness again. Knowing he must persevere against it, Ivan tries again. "Alfred, we—"

"No, Ivan—I know; I know, okay? You don't have to say anything, just let me have this moment."

Looking into Alfred's eyes, Ivan knows Alfred does know. He takes in another contemplative breath, lets it out, a decision made. He opens his mouth to tell Alfred he will do as Alfred has asked—but Alfred, perhaps assuming Ivan is only going to persist with his original negative, is quicker: he covers Ivan's open mouth with his own.

At first, they only breathe against one another: Ivan startled, Alfred determined. Then their breaths seep into each other and they start to ease; or perhaps it is the other way around. Their breaths, unaware of the fraughtness of the moment, bleed together. They breathe into each other, they drink each other's breaths, their lungs simpatico; their hearts, the rhythm of their blood, too. The dragonfly-winged moment expands around and beneath them, catching them as they tumble deeper into it, not falling but floating.

Ivan does not remember breaking the kiss, but he finds himself a step back from Alfred as he breathes air from the night now. His eyes go to Alfred's, and he finds there the moment still whole. He smiles; they both do.

A chill wind whips through the night, washing over them. Alfred shudders.

Ivan unwinds his scarf, pulls one end longer than the other, and re-wraps the shorter end around himself. He holds out the other end to Alfred.

For a moment, as Alfred hesitates, Ivan thinks Alfred is going to say something about not being subsumed into the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. But then Alfred smiles and wraps the scarf around his neck. And as they wait for the necessary humans to arrive and officially begin diplomatic relations between the Soviet Union and the United States of America, Ivan and Alfred stand together, side by side, nothing between them but their own hands, palm-in-palm.

**Author's Note:**

> Diplomatic relations between Russia and the U.S. broke down following the Bolshevik revolution in 1917. On November 16, 1933, U.S. President Franklin Roosevelt officially recognized the government of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and informed Soviet Foreign Minister Maxim Litvinov that the United States wished to establish normal diplomatic relations with the U.S.S.R. The U.S.S.R. accepted the same day, and both sides agreed to exchange ambassadors. On **December 13, 1933** , William Bullitt presented his credentials to President Kalinin in Moscow as the U.S. Ambassador to the Soviet Union.
> 
> Since there were only **48** U.S. states in 1933, I figured that's the number Alfred would have on his bomber jacket.
> 
> The **Moskva River** borders one side of Red Square, home of the Kremlin.
> 
> The **Sacramento River** is the longest river wholly contained within the state of California.
> 
> Native to the Americas, the **mountain lion** is the largest cat that can purr. Thank you to [Salmagundi_fic](http://salmagundi_fic.livejournal.com) for that trivia fact.   
> 


End file.
